Flee!

'Sir, we have to go!' says a sergeant of Croats to Governor Schroedinger-Skatt. 'We must leave at once! The enemy have broken into the fortress!'

'The sergeant is right!' says Captain Andreas Dreihumpe, entering the room breathlessly. 'Despite my best efforts, the enemy has worsted us!'

'I didn't notice you in the fight', says the governor.

'I took up a supervisory role, sir. Facilitating. Scaffolding positive learning outcomes. That sort of thing. But now I might well be in trouble, what with me being parolled and not actually supposed to be in the vicinity of any fighting. I too must leave and flee expeditiously through the enemy lines!'

Schroedinger-Skatt sighs and takes one last look at the room. 'I've had some good times here. When the doors were locked. Well, we should indeed be away'.

(Below) 'Sir, sir!' Suddenly, Colonel Dougal Entendre and Major Gordon Sanitaire, the Scottish mercenary engineering officers of French extraction, also now rush into the room.

The governor nods approvingly. 'Ah gentlemen  - I see that you are burdened with papers and packets - secret information, no doubt, that you wish spirited out of the fortress so that we can better continue the fight against the forces of the Spasmodic Sanction!'

(Below) The two Scots shake their heads. 'Nay sir - tis other purposes we have. Since the fortress is about tae fall, I thought it prudent tae make sure ye had our invoices and receipts. These are for engineering work rendered', says Entendre. 

'And these, sir,' says Sanitaire, handing over an even larger quantity of papers, 'are for our expenses. The items on page three might seem to be surprising - but military necessity required the presence of every one of those actresses'.

'What?' says the governor, looking surprised and concerned. 'You're not coming with us? You aren't seeking to escape in order that we can continue the war?'

Entendre looks slightly furtive. 'Nay, my lord. In such desperate circumstances as those that we find ourselves in, the major and I have developed an alternative strategy'.

The governor looks surprised. 'You intend, like true professionals to die at your posts?'

'Och no, we're going to change sides'.

Schroedinger splutters. 'But - what about all that we have been through together? What about loyalty? Fidelity? Comradeship? Do they mean nothing? Have I had to put up with your suspiciously variable Scottish accents for nothing?''

'Aye sir', says the colonel. 'Noble qualities; but not, I have tae say, absolute requirements for mercenary engineers such as ourselves. We prize qualities from a rather different dictionary: one that contains rather more synonyms for such words as 'caution', and 'self-preservation'. Let's have no hard feelings, sir.  And we did give you a bit of a discount. See here ...' he points to a line in a very long column of expenses. 'We only charged you half for the rulers'.

'But', says the governor, looking carefully at the figures, 'I don't remember you building a wooden horse'.

The colonel shrugs. 'Oh no, sir - we didnae actually bother - it never works. But if we had bothered, it would have cost you much more - so, charging you this amount for not building it actually has saved you quite a lot of money'.

'And, this ... haggis ... is it really so costly?'

'Aye - a luxury item, I'm afraid', says Entendre. 'But without haggis, no engineering work stands a serious chance of succeeding. Marshal Vauban himself was quite particular about it. It was his fourth rule of military engineering. Probably'.

'We really must go, my lord!' says Dreihumpe urgently.

'Very well', says the governor. He then looks up, his eyes glinting. 'But first, let us reward our faithful engineers!'

Soon, the party is fleeing from the front of the governor's residence (above). 'Entendre and Sanitaire didn't seem pleased', says Dreihumpe, puffing. 'I'll wager that it will take them some time to recover their expenses!'
The governor nods. 'Yes, well I had the sergeant stuff the paperwork quite far up their ... '
'Here we are, my lords!' interrupts the sergeant, pointing. Schroedinger looks.
'What? Where's my carriage? What's this?'
'A sedan chair', replies the sergeant (below).
'Yes, I can see that it's a sedan chair. But look at it. It's royally knackered. It doesn't fit together properly. Whoever constructed this sedan chair was blind, missing both hands, and really, really liked the colour brown. Get my carriage at once!'
'My lord, alas your carriage has no horses - they were eaten during the siege. There is nothing therefore to pull it. This sedan chair is the only remaining transport!'
The governor waves dismissively. 'Even without horses I think that my carriage would be faster than this! This escape will be rubbish. Look at those two men: there are dead badgers that look more energetic!'

'There's nothing else available, sir' says the Croat. 'We must hurry. Gelderland troops are pouring into the town. And even if we escape the town, sir, it is not clear that we will manage to pass through the enemy siege lines. They will never believe that we are civilians'.
'It might already be too late', says Dreihumpe. 'Rumour has it that the Gelderland troops are already looking for a govenor named Schroediner-Skatt and a certain Captain Dreihumpe'.
'There is still hope then', says the sergeant. 'Luckily, you, Governor, aren't Captain Dreihumpe; and you Captain Dreihumpe aren't Governor Schroedinger-Skatt'.
The captain looks askance at the sergeant. 'I don't think it work likes that', he says. 'We need a disguise', he adds.
'Quite', replies the governor. 'And I've had a thought - see over there? Sergeant, bring them to me!'

(Above) 'No - no XXXXXXX way!' says the sister. In case the governor misinterprets this as some form of assent, the nun adds a hand gesture to reinforce her point.
'Sister, if you but lend us your habits! Think of your country!' says the governor.
'We're xxxxxxx nuns! Swapping clothes must be morally wrong - it is certainly an activity of which the Devil would approve. He might even join in'.
Schroedinger dangles a key in front of her. 'If you're thirsty, I know where you can  get your hands on plenty of strong perfume'.
'Just the habits', replies the sister quickly, taking off her belt, 'or all the way down to our scanties?'
'Just, er, just the habits ...'
'Just joking!', says the sister, whipping off her habit: 'we don't actually wear anything underneath'.
'Gargh!' croaks the governor.

Crammed into the sedan chair, Dreihumpe adjusts his wimple and looks back awkwardly at the governor's house.
'That's quite an impressive conflagration, sir', he says.
'Yes', says the governor. 'I set fire to all the important things that I didn't want to fall into enemy hands'.
Dreihumpe nods. 'Our plans, stratagems and intelligence?'
'Oh no - that's all here',  says the governor, pulling a tiny folio from the folds of his habit. 'No, I set fire to my copies of Plump Milkmaids, which I acquired obviously for the illuminating articles'.
The captain nods. 'Well, they certainly burn impressively'.
'Well, some of the woodcuts in them are rather incendiary'.
 As the governor flees from Fort Pippin, the Gelderland troops begin sacking the town: except those that are set upon and beaten up by some surprisingly underdressed nuns.

Meanwhile, other events are occurring that, thank goodness, herald the final end to the war.

My Dear Friends? Well, They Can Usually be Found in the Breach!

And so, the siege of Fort Pippin reaches its dreadful, drawn-out denouement - or "ending", as it might be known. The Gelderland troops continue to batter against the enemy bastions like small and rather weak children pushing desperately at the door of a confectioners - a door which, in all likelihood, actually opens outwards. 

On the Gelderland left, two companies of their ladder troops have been given a pasting by Fenwickian fire. But the other two companies are now up on the walls. Great opportunities present themselves to these troops. Whilst (below, left) one of the Gelderland companies has in front of it the flank of an enemy unit, the other (below, right) is unopposed. This unit could fix bayonets and move to its right in support of its comrades. Or, it could turn left and move towards the other bastion, charging from the rear the recently rallied Fenwickian unit that stands just out of woodcut.

This being Mittelheim, of course, there are a range of other options that the troops are likely to consider carefully before embracing either of these: running off, for example; or, dropping their britches and shouting "Bring out the mustard - the sausage has arrived!"; or, alternatively, shooting their officers and changing sides.

(Below) In the interim, the Fenwickian defenders turn to face the enemy. The imperial artilleryman determine to man their guns for as long as possible - "as long as possible" being a euphemism in any Mittelheim military for whatever constitutes the smallest temporal subdivision of the word "momentary". As they gather their things, the fight for the bastion commences with an exchange of musketry. Despite balancing precariously on the battlements, the Gelderland troops discharge a surprisingly effective volley. The imperial musketeers' return fire is slacker than a fourteen year old "tidying" their room - and does no damage, except to the self-esteem of the few who view themselves as professionals.

It is not impossible that the dangerously free use of the word "discharge" might have upset the aim of some of the Fenwickian troops. Even under the pressure of combat, the imperials still suffer from their wearisome sensitivity to double entendre. This sensitivity is made worse by the lamentably low standards of education possessed by the rank and file in the army (which makes most somewhat better educated than their officers). Thus, whilst many genuinely rude words can be said in front of them without causing any problems at all simply because the troops don't understand them - words like "fornication" and 'belgium" - other, perfectly normal words, can cause terrible problems because the Fenwickians think that they sound rude - words like "tankard" and "handle".

Meanwhile at the breach, (below) the Gelderland attackers, sensing blood, or at least some liquid that isn't dribble, press eagerly towards the town itself.  Their artillery support, like artillerymen throughout the ages, sips coffee, polishes their cannon, and thanks God that they never joined the infantry.

The critical juncture. The Fenwickian defenders are much depleted. (Below, left) The routing troops at the base of the ramp have continued their rearward movement. The rallied company on the ramparts has been hit in the rear by one of the Gelderland ladder companies (blue flag) and has broken irrevocably. The Fenwickian grenadiers are the last defenders remaining at this position. Whilst launching a flank assault upon the enemy to the front would be satisfying, it would leave them, in turn, open to being charged in the flank. As a consequence, (below) they have wheeled and, with a 'hurrah!' (or an 'aaargh!' it's difficult to tell), they engage in the more difficult enterprise of a frontal assault upon the nearest enemy.

(Above, top) General Rheinfunkt has moved up to a position just behind the front line of his troops. This is brave - any more damage to his head and it just might completely fall off. In the smoke and confusion, he directs his troops for the final battle. He feels a vague sense that he is missing something - the opportunity to contribute a "For the King!", perhaps; or "Grenadiers Forward!"; or that special sense of satisfaction that comes from determining that the enemy has found something soft and squelchy that wasn't on their map (hopefully a marsh). Both the attackers and defenders have the advantage of being grenadiers; both, of course, suffer the disadvange of being from Mittelheim.

(Below) At the other bastion, the remaining ladder company gives a loud whoop (or 'poop!' it's difficult to tell) and closes upon the defenders. The artillerymen have already decided that discretion, or indeed anything else, is the better part of valour and are now withdrawing at running speed into the interior of the town. Upon this combat, and that at the other bastion, stand the outcome of the siege!

Lady Luck spins giddily. Commanders peer forward into the smoke of battle, trying to determine the outcome of events. Sadly, in scenes so distressing that they are recorded in unusably blurry woodcuts, the Fenwickians lose both combats! Disaster! Woe! Triumph! Victory! The Gelderland commander laughs uproariously from his distant position, making obscene comments; and then making an "L" shape from the fingers of his right hand, which he then holds to his forehead. The Fenwickian command slumps. The 'Spartans of Mittelheim' have lost! In the town, there are scenes of panic not seen since the last inspection of the governor's financial accounts ...

No, No - That's the Beach: I Said "Breach", Dear Friends!

At the bastion, the victorious Fenwickian musketeers advance after combat, once again blocking this key point of entry against the attacking Gelderlanders. There is, for the attacking troops, no clever way out of this problem. Even if there were a clever way out, one wouldn't bet on them being the troops to find it, unless this clever way was printed in large letters onto a poster and then read out to the troops thrice daily for a period of not less than a week. So, yet again, the grenadiers advance up the gap in the bastion and launch a frontal assault upon the defenders (below).

Finally, by the power of their training and the application of the law of averages, the attacking column succeeds in breaking in. The defending imperials suddenly remember some urgent tasks or other that need performing far, far away from the site of this immediate danger. They rout (below) joining the other collection of flotsam and jetsam that have accumulated at the bottom of the wall's approach ramp. This is not good news for the defenders. It is, in fact, quite bad news: news that would sit somewhere between, on the one hand, discovering that one's trousers were on fire, and, on the other, discovering that said trousers for some reason were being worn as a hat.

The situation, however, remains dynamic. The Gelderland grenadiers, their blood up, and never happier in their military careers than when they are taking free stabs at enemy troops that are running away, vigorously pursue their defeated adversaries. In doing so (below, top), they expose their left flank to the Fenwickian grenadiers. Moreover, (below, bottom) the routing imperials on the parapet have now rallied, probably as a consequence of having been lied to about improvements in their pay and conditions and the introduction of a form of 360 degree reporting, and now stand ready to return to the fray.

(Below) With the situation deteriorating, and more supporting Gelderland troops pushing up behind the lead company, the imperial grenadiers charge forwards into the flank of their enemy. They are supported by musket fire into the other enemy flank from the head of the column of rallied troops.

As these dramatic and potentially decisive moves unfold in the vicinity of the bastion, other events equally distasteful and unmanly, are unfolding. In the safety of the second parallel, the contribution to the battle made by the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel continues in full swing. It is almost certain, though, that rarely has the phrase "full swing" been accompanied by activity so slack and lacklustre. The Bachscuttlers have continued to fire their tiny mortar, activity interspersed with very long breaks for sausage, beer and colourful jokes involving salaciously tempting beer-flavoured sausage.

That their fire has been so ineffective in the battle is unsurprising given their penchant for firing from their mortar things other than shells, just to see what happens. Thus far, their experiments, of which the Nabstrian scientist Faltaire would no doubt be proud, have demonstrated conclusively that chairs, bratwursts, brass chamber pots, apple strudel, boots, and an unpopular bombardier named Fritz, all demonstrate inferior aerodynamic qualities relative to a mortar shell; although Fritz cartwheeled so fast that he did exhibit some of the properties of rifling.

(Above) In the approach trench linking the third parallel to the second, Horace de Saxe has intervened in an attempt to rally the remains of the two companies of Gelderland grenadiers that were broken in the initial assaults on the bastion. Foolishly, Saxe appeals to their sense of duty and honour, an attempt that only slows the running troops because they find it difficult to run and laugh at the same time. Saxe switches to menacing threats. However, this also fails - it is difficult to take seriously threats from a man sitting in a giant pram.

(Below)  At the other point of attack, the Gelderland ladder companies have continued with their surprising run of success. One company, along with the commander of the force, have found an undefended portion of the wall and manage to climb to the top without significant problems.

'Orders, sir?' ask the musketeers, reforming on the battlements.

(Above) The commander discharges his pistol and then strikes a pose.
'Men', he says, blowing the smoke from the barrel of the pistol, 'I've come here to powder wigs and kill Fenwickians - and I'm all out of wig powder'.
There is a short pause. A musketeer then says. 'I've got some wig powder, sir. Here, you can have it if you ...'.
'No! No!' says the officer in annoyance. 'I was just trying to introduce some dramatic effect ... Never mind. You've ruined it. Form up! Let's do this the undramatic way'.

In the other bastion itself, defending volleys decimate one of the ladder companies, driving it back to the foot of the wall. (Above) But another attacking company reaches the top and finds itself on the flank of some of the defenders. As at the other bastion, the fight here is reaching its decisive point!